


Don't Feed the Plants

by cinnamonivy



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Little Shop of Horrors - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe- Little Shop of Horrors, Awkward Flirting, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, I'm kinda disappointed that the tag didn't exist yet, Mutual Pining, Oh no here comes the angst, Pamela is very gay and flustered, Save Her, Slow Burn, didn't mean for that to happen whoops, more tags to be added probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2018-12-13 11:58:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11759379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnamonivy/pseuds/cinnamonivy
Summary: On the twenty-third day of the month of Septemberin an early year of a decade not too long before our own,the human race suddenly encountered a deadlythreat to its very existence.And this terrifying enemy surfaced,as such enemies often do,in the seemingly most innocent and unlikely of places.The Little Shop of Horrors au I thought of as a joke but accidentally got way too invested in.





	1. Prologue

 

> _On the twenty-third day of the month of September_   
>  _in an early year of a decade not too long before our own,_   
>  _the human race suddenly encountered a deadly_   
>  _threat to its very existence._   
>  _And this terrifying enemy surfaced,_   
>  _as such enemies often do,_   
>  _in the seemingly most innocent and unlikely of places._

It was five o’clock. Pamela Isley had just gotten off of work. She'd bid her goodbyes to her boss and her coworker before going on an evening walk. Despite the slight autumn chill in the air, it was still warm enough to go out without a sweater.

The street she lived on was not in the good part of town, and the good part of town would've passed for the bad side of town anywhere but Gotham. Still, it was all that Pamela had ever known, or, for that matter, would know. Nobody ever left Skid Row. The closest thing to upward mobility for a Skid Row girl was going from an affair with a skeezy used car dealer to an affair with a reputable used car dealer. Neither option particularly appealed to her.

She stepped over a motionless body on the sidewalk. Maybe it was another victim of the high crime rate, but she assured herself it was probably just another wino passed out in public. Either option was likely enough. She lifted her long green skirt to avoid touching the man.

Ahead of her was the little weekend market of folding tables and handmade tchotchkes. The only people besides her who regularly visited were wealthy tourists wanting to see how the other side lives, and muggers waiting to rip off those wealthy tourists. She waved hello to one knife-wielding criminal she saw every day in his alley. He smiled and waved back before resuming robbing an old lady blind. Many of the street vendors were beginning to pack up, but the one she was here to see was still open. She walked up to the stall as quickly as her scuffed heels would take her.

It was a plain table, no flags or balloons like some of its showier neighbors, tended by an old man who'd run a Chinese restaurant before a chain had opened up next door. Upon the table was a spread of clippings from assorted gardens and flowers from the drugstore. His collection was usually fairly ordinary, but sometimes he'd find something that she couldn't help but bring back to the shop. Once she'd bought a rare orchid that had fetched three times what she had paid for it at the florist’s. That had built up enough goodwill to merit coming back here as often as she did. Even if there was nothing special, Pamela would always try to leave a couple pennies in the glass jar of coins he kept on the table.

The old man looked up from his spread of plant cuttings. “Pamela. Weren't you here yesterday?”

She nodded. “Have anything new?”

He laughed a bit as he took out a cardboard box from under the table. “I've got something. Plumeria branches. Got ‘em shipped in special from Hawaii. I'll sell it to you for just two fifty.”

They were more likely clipped from some garden uptown than from Hawaii. Pamela tried to hide her disappointment. This was exotic, but not exactly rare. She wanted something exciting. “Anything else?”

The vendor feigned deep offense. “What's the matter? Not good enough for you?”

Before she could answer, it got very dark, very quickly. That struck her as odd. It couldn't have been later than five fifteen. Then it hit her. This must be the total eclipse of the sun she'd read about in the newspaper. She stepped away into the street and looked up, holding a hand above her eyes. She'd never seen a solar eclipse before. There was a faint humming sound. Was that normal?

Almost as suddenly as it had come, it was over. Pamela turned back to the vendor. “For the record, that plumeria–”

She stopped. There, on the far end of the table, was a clay flowerpot. She could've sworn it hadn't been there before. It didn't look like anything she'd seen before. At first glance, it seemed to be a simple Venus flytrap, but she could see some clear differences. She picked it up for closer inspection. The mouth was much wider than a flytrap, for starters, and its leaves seemed to be from another plant altogether. They looked almost like ivy. Small green tendrils curled around its base.

She looked at the vendor. “What's this one? I don't think I've seen a flytrap like this before.”

He shrugged. “I don't remember where I find all the cuttings. I'll sell it to you for,” he paused, thinking of an appropriate price, “dollar ninety-five. Good deal. You won't find one like that anywhere else.”

It was undeniably a good deal. She pulled the appropriate amount of change from her skirt pocket and deposited it in the mason jar.

He nodded his head in thanks. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

Pamela mumbled some polite response before walking back down the street to her apartment. It was already getting late. She didn't want to be out any more than absolutely necessary in her neighborhood. Cradling the plant to her breast, she looked down at it. Impossible as it seemed, she could have sworn that it was smiling at her. 

_Little shop, little shoppa horrors._   
_Bop sh-bop, you'll never stop the terror._   
_Little shop, little shoppa horrors._   
_No, oh, oh, no, oh, oh, no, oh, oh, no!_


	2. Skid Row

_Downtown_   
_Where the folks are broke._   
_You go Downtown_   
_Where your life's a joke._   
_You go Downtown_   
_When you buy your token,_   
_you go_   
_Home to Skid Row._

Pamela walked back the way she'd came. Her apartment was in the basement under the florist shop. It had been her home for years. She'd been only fifteen, a street orphan, when the owner had taken her in. He had never been kind. No, it had been clear from the start that Jason Woodrue only wanted a worker. He never kept it a secret how little he cared for her. Still, she took the job. At least it payed alright.

A truck honked as it sped by her, less than a foot from where she was walking. She yelled at it as it disappeared into the distance. Her clothes were a mess, splashed with gutter water and mud. At least her plant was okay. She crossed the street as quickly as she could.

Someone called at her from across the street. Pulling her plant in close, Pamela walked faster until the voices were gone. She hated walking alone.

She had never had much in the way of friends. There'd been Selina, but she didn't hear from her aside from the occasional postcard after she'd run off with some rich guy uptown. Woodrue was awful, she didn't know the old street vendor that well, and the people she saw on the street were simply acquaintances. Her only real friend was Harleen.

Harleen had come to work at Woodrue’s Florists two years ago. The boss had wanted someone bright and bubbly to tend the register, and Harleen fit the picture exactly. Youth, blonde pigtails, blue eyes, and a constantly cheerful attitude blended to create the perfect model of an All-American sweetheart. On those rare days when they had customers, one smile from her would charm the cash right out of their wallets.

Pamela walked up the steps to the shop and turned her key in the door. It swung open, ringing the bell that would notify her of a potential customer. She brushed her shoes on the mat before entering.

Harleen was there at the counter. She looked up at the bell and grinned at Pamela. “Pammy! I just had to grab my sweater. How ya doin’?”

Pamela waved shyly. “I'm alright.”

Harleen threw on the sweater and bounced up to her. “Whatcha got there? That's definitely a strange and unusual-looking plant, right?”

Pamela presented it proudly, hiding her face behind it. “I bought it from that old man who sells cuttings at the market. I've never seen anything like it!”

Harleen took it for a closer look. “It's some sorta flytrap, yeah? Think it's a new species?”

Pamela smiled at her interest as she handed it back. “I don't know, exactly. I'll have to check my books in my apartment.”

Harleen checked her watch. “I don't have to be anywhere until seven or so. I could help you look for it if you want.”

“Sure!” Pamela answered instantaneously. She cringed at her own enthusiasm. “I mean, if you want to that's fine. It's probably boring.”

“Great! Let's go!” Harleen grabbed her by the hand and started walking towards the basement door. Pamela could feel her face heating up at the unexpected contact.

The blonde led her downstairs to the tiny apartment down below. Pamela couldn't help but be embarrassed at the state of the place. There were plants cluttering the tiny windowsill over her bed, clothes were strewn across the floor and over the lone chair, and the nightstand was clearly just a stack of old philosophy textbooks she'd saved from a dumpster. She kicked some dead leaves under her lopsided dresser in an effort to make it look a tiny bit cleaner.

Harleen sat down on the bed, her red skirt taking up most of the space. “So, wanna get the books out?”

Pamela walked quickly across the room to a little stack of botany textbooks and encyclopedias she'd collected over the years. It took her a few seconds to find the ones that dealt with flytraps to bring back to Harleen.

She smiled up at her as she took one of the books. “What should I be looking for?”

Pamela swallowed as she averted her gaze. “See if any entries say anything about leaf shape, or tendrils, or being about–” She squinted at the plant, using her hand as a ruler. “–five inches wide. Tell me when you're done with that one.” Careful not to disturb the piles of clothes, she sat down on the floor next to the bed. She could feel Harleen’s leg brush against her. She focused extra hard on the encyclopedia.

Minutes felt like hours. Just being near Harleen, not even talking, felt undeniably right to her. She mentally screamed at herself for thinking that. Any fool could tell that it was hopeless. No girl would ever reciprocate her feelings, especially not one as perfect as Harleen. They made it through almost all of the books with no sign of the mystery plant. After about an hour, Harleen checked her watch. She let out a frightened yelp as she jumped to her feet.

Pamela looked up from her fifth book. “What's wrong?”

Harleen hurriedly fixed her lipstick in Pamela’s mirror. “I gotta go, I'm almost late.” She picked up her handbag from the floor. “I hope you find what you're looking for. See you tomorrow!”

Pamela watched her retreat upstairs. The bell rang as she opened and closed the main door. An engine started up on the street. She wondered where Harleen had gone in such a hurry. All she could do was pray that it wasn't a date with that pasty jackass she called a boyfriend.

Pamela had never seen the guy up close in person, but she'd seen enough of what he'd done to hate him. Ever since Harleen had started dating him a year or so back, she'd been coming to work late and covered in bruises. She'd say that they were from accidents, but no one could be so clumsy to fall on a doorknob that many times in a week. Pamela wanted to strangle the jerk that had done this to her. It was a mystery what she saw in him.

She picked up the plant and set it on her windowsill. It drooped slightly. Maybe it needed water? Pamela quickly filled up her watering can from the tap and poured a little into the soil. The flytrap looked almost sad. Her heart ached for it. This weak little plant needed her love, her protection. She decided to buy it some plant food once she got her next paycheck. If this really was a unique specimen, she'd have to make sure it thrived in her care.

Alone, she looked through the rest of the books. The flytrap didn't appear once.

_Someone show me a way to get_   
_outta here,_   
_'cause I constantly pray I'll get_   
_outta here_   
_Please, won't somebody say I'll get_   
_outta here._   
_Someone gimme my shot or_   
_I'll rot here._


	3. Da-doo

_Da-doo,_  
_Shoop da-doo,_  
_Chang da-doo_  
_Snip da-doo,_  
_Da da da da da da-doo._

It was another slow day at Woodrue’s Florists. Pamela was bored out of her mind. She'd already counted the four hundred and twenty-five tiles on the ceiling twenty-three times, rearranged the five largest flower arrangements three times apiece, and gone over all of the thirteen dollars and seventeen cents in the cash register more times than she could count. There were no more plants to water, no customers to help, no orders to fill. Only the monotonous ticking of the clock, inching ever closer to the sweet release of five o’clock. Pamela brushed a dry leaf off of the desk and watched it fall. It drifted slowly, landing on the dusty floor. Sighing, she stood up and walked over to get the broom. She could always sweep again.

There was a sudden chime from the bell on the door. Pamela quickly turned to face it, hopeful for some paying customer, but it was only her coworker, late as always. Of course. No one bought flowers on Skid Row. She looked back down at the pile of dust and plant matter for a moment before doing a double take.

Harleen was a mess. Her glasses were cracked, her blonde pigtails were uneven, and her copious amount of makeup was doing nothing to mask the bruises on her face and arms. Noticing Pamela’s stare, she adjusted her shrug to cover herself. “Do I look that bad?”

“No,” Pamela responded reflexively. She could tell that the other woman didn't believe her.

Harleen glanced at her reflection in a glazed flowerpot and adjusted her hair. “You don't hafta lie to me, y’know.”

Pamela knew by now not to get into this, but couldn't help but try. “You need to break up with him, Harleen. You're too good for that creep.”

She laughed softly, a small, broken sort of laugh. “You don't know that, Pammy. It's what I deserve.”

Any further argument was cut off by the sound of footsteps coming down from the upstairs apartment. Pamela and Harleen turned to see Mr. Woodrue, standing at the foot of the staircase. He looked like he'd been running all the way down.

“Customers?” he asked, out of breath. Pamela shook her head no. Almost immediately his demeanor changed to what would have been anger if he'd had the energy left. “What's the time?”

Harleen answered. “Eleven fifteen, mistah.”

“And how much money is in the cash register?”

Pamela responded instantaneously. “Thirteen dollars and seventeen cents.”

Mr. Woodrue appeared to be thinking over something, before nodding to confirm it to himself. “Leave. I'm going to close up early today.”

Pamela was taken aback. That was unlike him. He would insist on staying open later if he thought they had a chance of a profit to be made. “Are you sure?”

He was already turning off the lights. “No one’s buying plants here anymore. We're losing money just keeping the electricity running. If we can't make a profit by Friday, we may have to close.”

Pamela looked back down at the dust pile, letting her long red hair fall over her. No one had to see her face. The flower shop was her entire life. She'd been all alone in the world until she'd found her plants. They gave her purpose. They made her feel useful. The shop was, quite literally, her home. She'd lived in that basement apartment for about half of her life. Not much sun, but she made do. It was all she had.

The basement. Pamela realized suddenly. The plant she'd bought from the street vendor was still there. Maybe that could turn some sort of profit. She turned to Mr. Woodrue excitedly.

"Mr. Woodrue! Wait! I think I might have something!" She ran downstairs before he could answer. It was right where she'd left it, sitting on the tiny windowsill above her bed. She picked up the flowerpot and went back up to the shop. "I bought this strange and unusual plant the other day. Customers love strange and unusual things. Let me put it in the window, see if that attracts any attention?"

Mr. Woodrue eyed it suspiciously. "What is that thing?"

Pamela brushed a lock of hair behind her ear, suddenly paying extra attention to how Harleen was looking at her. "I, uh, I'm not sure. It's nothing I've ever seen before. I think it's some previously undiscovered subspecies of flytrap or something." Her face flushed bright red as she turned to Harleen. "I've been calling it the Harley Two. After you."

Harleen squealed in excitement as she looked at her namesake. "I love it! I always wanted something named after me!" She threw her arms around Pamela in an unexpected boa-constrictor-like hug. She nearly dropped her plant.

Mr. Woodrue shrugged. "You can put it in the window. If it doesn't–"

Before he could finish his sentence there was a ringing of the bell. A man in a suit stood in the doorway. He stepped into the store, removing his hat.

Pamela looked up from the window display she'd just set the plant in. "Can we help you?"

The man pointed at the Harley Two. "I was walking by and I couldn't help but notice that strange and unusual plant you have there. I don't think I've seen anything like it before."

Pamela smiled at him. "It's called the Harley Two. It's one of a kind. I found it during that total eclipse of the sun we had a few days back."

The man nodded. "What an interesting story. Well, while I'm here I might as well buy fifty dollars worth of roses." He pulled out his wallet and removed a bill. "Can you break a hundred?"

Pamela shook her head in stunned silence.

He looked unfazed. "Oh well, guess I'll just have to get twice as many!"

Harleen ran back to the cash register to deal with the sale. Pamela bent down to look at the little flytrap. It seemed to be smiling at her. She smiled back at it. The plant may have been half dead, but it had just saved her job. She made a mental note to buy it the best plant food she could find.

She heard Mr. Woodrue walk over to her. She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to face him.

"You did alright," he admitted begrudgingly. She beamed. That was high praise coming from him. He went over to where the sale was being finished up, probably just to see the hundred for himself. Pamela looked back at her plant. Did one of its leaves move?

The bell rang again as the door closed. Harleen's high-pitched yell of excitement split the air the moment the man was gone. She gripped Pamela in another boa-constrictor hug.

"You did it Pammy!" Pamela became ultra aware of how close their faces were. "You saved the shop!"

Pamela put her arms around her. She loved this feeling of closeness, even though all logic told her that this was as much as would ever happen. A girl could still dream. Was she holding her too long? She quickly let go. Harleen was smiling at her.

Pamela grew a little bolder. This had already been a day for miracles, what did she have to lose? She took a deep breath to steady herself. "Hey, um, Harleen, I was wondering?"

"Yeah?" She was so pretty. Standing so close to her. Pamela reprimanded herself. Stay cool.

"Would you, uh, want to get lunch with me sometime? Maybe during our break today?" Okay, keep it casual, don't come on too strong.

Her face fell. "I wish I could, Pam-a-lamb, but I've got a date today. Maybe some other time?"

Pamela tried to smile despite the feeling of her internal organs collapsing in on themselves. Every time she thought she had a chance, that grinning sadist was always there. "No, it's fine. I don't care."

Did Harleen look a bit disappointed? No, she couldn't be. Pamela was probably just seeing what she wanted to see. "Are you sure? I think I'm free on Thursday."

It was a stupid idea. She shouldn't have brought it up. "No, really, I need to stay here to take care of my plants anyways. Someone's got to watch over our newest attraction." She smiled unconvincingly as she picked it up from the display. “It's okay, really.”

Harleen looked down and away. "Oh. That's fine."

 _Da-doo,_  
_Whoop-see-doo_  
_Audrey Two._  
_Sha la la, la la la, la la la, doo-doo-doo-doo!_


	4. Grow For Me

_I've given you sunshine_  
_I've given you dirt._  
_You've given me nothing_  
_But heartache and hurt._  
_I'm beggin' you sweetly._  
_I'm down on my knees._  
_Oh, please—grow for me!_

Against all odds, business was booming. Harley Two seemed to be drawing people in from all over town to gawk at it, and Harleen and Pamela were dealing with dozens of customers a day. For the first time in human memory, the tip jar had real cash in it. With all of the money coming in, everyone seemed in a better mood. Pamela could've sworn that once she heard Mr. Woodrue actually praise her botanical ability to some man in a suit. There was even talk of renovation. For the shop, this plant was a miracle.

To Pamela, it was a disaster. Of all of her plants, her babies, it was only the sickliest of the lot to gain any attention. It was like her others didn't even exist. No one even looked at her proud display of violets with Harley Two around. However, she could tell it wouldn't be around for very much longer. The plant was dying, and worse, it wasn't even growing. If it didn't grow, people would grow bored with it and the shop would be back at square one. No plant, no money, no fame. She needed to get it to live. She'd tried everything she could think of to no avail. The stubborn thing wouldn't even open its mouth. It had been about a week since the attention started and it still wouldn't budge.

It was eight in the morning. Pamela had been up since three trying a theory of hers that the plant only opened at night. Yet again, her theory had been proven false. She yawned as she tried to water a limp-looking daffodil. It stubbornly wilted under her care.

Unexpectedly, Pamela heard the bell ring. Prepared to tell off a customer who'd mistaken an unlocked door for being open, she was surprised to see Harleen silhouetted against the morning light. Pamela could only stare at her in shock, the watering can forgotten. Her coworker hadn't come to work early in months. This wasn't like her. Something had to be going on.

Harleen practically bounced with excitement as she crossed the room, pink circle skirt swaying, and with a flourish she set a brown paper bag down on the counter in front of Pamela. "I gotcha a present!"

Pamela looked behind herself, half-expecting her to be addressing someone else. She was alone. Of course she was alone. Who else could she have been talking to? She was an idiot for making a big deal out of what was almost certainly nothing.

Slowly, she turned back to Harleen. She cleared her throat, stalling. "Me?"

Harleen smacked her arm playfully. "'Course it's for you, silly! Go on, open it!"

Okay. This was, in fact, for her. This was happening. With shaking hands, Pamela unfolded the top of the bag and looked inside. She felt a pang of disappointment. She wasn't sure what she was expecting, but it definitely wasn't half a bag of dead crickets.

Harleen was looking at her with barely-concealed excitement. "Whaddaya think?"

Pamela looked up and smiled awkwardly. There had to be something positive to say about it. "It's... uh... very interesting. I always did have an interest in, um, you know, exotic foods... Thank you."

Harleen nearly choked, making a sound like a parrot being stepped on, and her collected exterior collapsed into convulsing laughter. Her entire body was shaking. Pamela could feel a sweat breaking out. Had she said something wrong? She must have. She must have made some horribly obvious mistake. This was bad. This was very bad. She let her hair fall loose from behind her ear to cover a bit of her face as the blonde leaned on the counter for support, wheezing and shaking. It took her nearly a minute to regain composure.

"They're... They're not for you... They were for the plant!" Another wave of uncontrollable laughter overtook her. She wiped a tear from her eye. "You were going to eat them!"

Pamela wanted to slap herself. Of course it was for the plant. Why wouldn't it be? "Um, no, what I meant was exotic..." she struggled to think of a decent excuse, "plant food. Exotic plant food." She knew it was transparent as hell.

Harleen took a deep breath to steady herself and put a hand on Pamela's shoulder. "You seriously were going to... to...." The thought was too much for her to handle and she broke down again. Pamela tried to stop her brain from replaying her mistake on an endless loop to no avail.

She heard footsteps coming from upstairs. Under most circumstances, she'd resent him for interrupting her, but right now she was just thankful to have any excuse to stop talking. Pamela turned to look at her boss. "Mr. Woodrue?"

He tapped his watch. "We open in ten minutes. Where's that flytrap of yours?"

"I'll be just a moment!" Pamela picked up the paper bag before heading to the downstairs apartment. The plant was as pathetic-looking as ever, sitting on her desk, surrounded by a variety of gardening books that dwarfed it in comparison. Pamela sighed as she unfolded the paper. The little plant didn't even look like it could survive another day of the display window. She bent over the table, offering it a cricket in her outstretched hand. Harley Two seemed to draw away from her reach. She sighed, setting the bag down on the table. It seemed like the plant wanted to die. She carefully picked it up, mindful not to jostle it, and carried it up to the shop. Almost as soon as she'd set it in its spot in the window, she could see passerby beginning to press their noses against the glass. A line was already forming by the door. Her heart sank a little. It was starting. Pamela hurried behind the counter beside Harleen.

Harleen giggled under her breath as Pamela stood beside her, quickly attempting to disguise it as a cough. Pamela winced with the knowledge that her error would not soon be forgotten. "Did it help at all?"

Pamela looked down and away in disappointment. "Not yet, at least." Harleen's face fell, but she quickly covered it up with a look of disinterest. Pamela deliberately gave no sign that she had seen. She brushed a loose strand of red hair behind her ear. "But thanks anyway," she admitted shyly.

"No problemo." Harleen casually opened her pocketbook and rummaged around. Pamela noticed that she had new nail polish, alternating pink and blue. She bit back a compliment. After much deliberation, Harleen pulled out a pink and white cardboard box from the bag. "Bubblegum?" Pamela shook her head. Harleen shrugged. "Suit yourself." She popped a piece into her mouth, working it as she talked. "So how've things been goin' with the weirdo plant?"

"Not great. I don't know what it wants. I've tried everything I could think of, but it doesn't grow." Pamela realized she'd been staring at her mouth and averted her eyes. She felt a trace of warmth in her cheeks and prayed that Harleen hadn't noticed.

Paying little to no mind, Harleen put a hand on her shoulder. Pamela froze under her touch. "It'll get better eventually. You're great with this sorta thing! "

She laughed nervously, nodding. "I'm probably just missing something obvious. I always mess things like this up. It's just a matter of time before I fix it. Really, it's not a big deal. I got this." I got this? What was she thinking? She'd just gone and backed herself into a corner. She couldn't give up on the plant now, not with Harleen convinced that she could do this. What could she do now, admit fallibility? Disappoint her? Stupid! She busied herself with the cash register.

Harleen sat down on the stool. "I dunno about you, but it's a big deal to me. Your plant probably saved the shop t'be honest. Seriously, ya gotta tell me how I can make things up to you." Her voice sounded completely sincere. Pamela felt her face heating up more beneath her gaze. She was probably as red as her hair about now.

"It's-it's fine, really." Breaking eye contact, Pamela looked down as she sorted the change.

Harleen touched her wrist, pulling the redhead's attention back to her. "No, I mean it. I gotta thank ya, Pammy. I didn't wanna have to go out there and tell the landlady I couldn't pay rent for the month. I was scared I'd be out on the street there. I can't lose this job."

Her round blue eyes were wide with some mixture of hope and fear. Pamela was lost in them. She looked so intoxicatingly beautiful, her wavy blonde hair loose over her shoulders, her pale pink blush faded against her skin. There was a twitch near the corner of her lips as she smiled softly up at her. Pamela melted. Impulsively, she replied. "I won't let that happen."

Harleen looked at her with a softened expression. "I trust ya, Pam."

The customers spilled through the doors at eight-fifteen, as had become usual, demanding her attention and her advice. The endless parade of faces became a blur to Pamela. No matter how many sales she made, there were always more, calling for her to attend to them and asking countless pointless questions she'd answered a thousand times already. She'd never gotten used to this many people being in the shop at once. There was no time to talk, no ducking into the back room to relax, only more customers and the endless ticking of the clock. She never thought she'd miss the slow days, but at least then she'd been able to talk with Harleen or try and care for one of the dying plants. Now, there was only time for customers. Every second, Harley Two seemed to wilt a little more, but the customers didn't care. All they did was pick up things they had no intention of buying and ask the same questions she'd already answered dozens of times in the same day, relentless in prodding her towards madness. If Harleen hadn't been there, ready to pick up the slack and deal with the most difficult shoppers, Pamela likely would have snapped and quit by now.

In the middle of it all was Woodrue. Where she was suffocating in the onslaught of humanity, he thrived in it. He always seemed to be talking to strange men with tailored suits and slicked-back hair, making deals for deliveries and bigger arrangements and publicity and who knows what else. Pamela thought she heard one say something about putting her plant on the radio, but she couldn't have been sure of anything. Only the endless barrage of people calling for her and her plant.

The day ended surprisingly quickly. That was one upside of having to deal with people, Pamela mused. It passed the time.

Pamela smiled through the pain as she urged the last shopper, a little old lady with an enormous armful of lilies, to have a nice day as she ushered her through the door. She let out an audible sigh of relief as she closed the door behind her and turned over the sign reading OPEN in big red letters to the side that read CLOSED. It was more symbolic than anything. Even though the customers were finally gone, Pamela and Harleen were still stuck at the shop. Thanks to the newfound popularity of Woodrue's Florists there were orders for flower arrangements rushing in from chapels, funeral homes, and private engagements all over Gotham. Under normal circumstances, Pamela would have welcomed the opportunity to spend more time with Harleen, but all she could think of now was how much time she was losing that could've been spent trying to find out what was wrong with the flytrap.

She arranged an oversized bouquet ordered by a local theater troupe, dimly aware of Harleen across the table arranging several smaller arrangements for a banquet. They worked almost entirely in silence, occasionally breaking it to ask for some flower on the other side of the room. There was a mechanical sort of indifference between the two of them, borne of a mutual desire to escape the shop. This was not much of a time for conversation.

Pamela looked over the display before her, a tall vase filled with red and purple flowers. It was nearly complete, but still looked like it was missing something. Awkwardly, she cleared her throat. Harleen looked up. "Could you pass me an iris?"

Harleen moved her hands back from the vase of gladioli and acacia blossoms she was working on. "Oh! Right." She picked up a couple particularly beautiful specimens from a large vase on the floor and passed them across the table. She quickly moved on to the next arrangement, yellow tulips and day lilies, moving with a grace and efficiency Pamela could only dream of.

"You're getting these done fast today," Pamela remarked as she picked up a red columbine, setting it carefully among a burst of gillyflowers. "Going somewhere later?"

Harleen shrugged, looking over a winter cherry before setting it back down. "Not really. Just s'posed to meet this guy. Not a big deal. You don't know 'im."

Pamela knew exactly who was being spoken of, but decided not to let on. She did not want to be lured into an argument right now. "Could you pass me a yellow rose?"

Harleen handed it to her wordlessly before putting some viburnum in the vase. She finished it off with a dash of glitter before starting the next one. Silence settled over them again.

Pamela finished the large arrangement and picked up a second vase, this one for some lady's birthday. She put some yew branches in the center to more evenly weight the display, then surrounded them with pink carnations. Across the table Harleen finished yet another bouquet, building an impressive amount of finished vases on her side of the table. She was nearly done with her half of the orders. Pamela hastened her work to match her, lining the edge of the vase with moss rosebuds. Harleen was already starting yet another small vase, this one a cluster of primrose framed by maidenhair fern. Pamela quickly set the one she'd been working on aside and picked up an empty vase from the floor.

Pamela set a handful of spider flowers in the third vase, paying less attention to each individual bouquet. She didn't particularly like having to make the flower arrangements for the shop. Pamela had always held a distinct preference for living plants. Still, having to make them by herself would be worse. Harleen's presence made everything a bit more bearable.

Pamela looked across the table, watching Harleen at work. Though Pamela built the increasingly popular and elaborate displays with some degree of reluctance, Harleen willingly threw herself into it. She had a definite eye for color that Pamela simply didn't possess, and a fondness for old Victorian flower language that she liked to work in whenever possible. Pamela remembered that time she'd started putting lemon blossoms in everything after finding out that it meant "zest," just for the wordplay. She smiled slightly at the memory of Harleen's enthusiasm over the newly discovered fact.

Noticing her gaze, Harleen turned the vase towards her. "Whaddaya think?"

Pamela was jerked back to reality by her words. "It's good, it's really good," she assured her instinctively. She paused to properly look it over. It did seem a bit bare. "I think maybe it needs something. Maybe a jasmine, or a hibiscus?" Pamela offered, searching the vases near her half of the table.

Harleen shook her head. "Bit too flashy, if you ask me. Probably just gonna use some garden daisy or somethin'."

Pamela continued looking at the flowers on her side, trying to find the exact most impressive one. "Aha!" Triumphantly, she plucked a red rose from the center of her own arrangement, which she now noticed was largely violets. She resolved to mix it up with some lilies-of-the-valley for variety. "How about this? It would stand out nicely."

Harleen's whole face lit up. "That's perfect. Thank you." She reached out to take it from her outstretched hand. Their fingers brushed slightly. Pamela did her best to ignore it.

They finished the rest of the arrangements in silence. Harleen had gotten her half done first, but took one of Pamela's orders to even out their time spent working. Neither one acknowledged it beyond a brief look and a shared smile. They managed to get everything completed by seven.

Pamela locked the back room behind them as they left the cuttings for the night. They walked together to the front of the shop, pausing briefly so Harleen could flip the light switches off. They stopped in the doorway. Pamela looked aside to her coworker only to find that Harleen was looking back at her. The eye contact was held a moment too long.

Pamela ran a hand through her hair, glancing down at Harleen's black Mary Janes. "I hope your date goes well."

"Ha. Me too." Harleen laughed without mirth, her voice dry and bitter. She quickly changed the subject, returning to her normal, brighter tone. "So, um, have any new ideas for your plant?"

Pamela shook her head. "Not sure yet. Give me time, though, and I'll figure it out, don't worry."

Harleen looked at her with complete sincerity. "I know ya will, Pammy."

"Thanks."

Silence.

Harleen put a hand on Pamela's elbow and smiled at her. "I'll see ya tomorrow." She let go of the soft pressure on her arm as she opened the door. Pamela released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

"See you tomorrow." She nodded as she watched her walk out into the city, the bell heralding her departure. The evening air had a chill to it, cutting right through Pamela's soft green sweater. She shivered as she locked the front door.

"How's the flytrap coming along?"

Pamela whipped around. "Mr. Woodrue! I didn't hear you come downstairs. How'd we do today?"

He ignored her question. He was all the way across the shop, but Pamela still felt like he was too close. She sidestepped towards her apartment door.

Mr. Woodrue walked to the front window. He frowned as he picked up Harley Two from the display. "Looks a bit wilted to me. Have you been watering it?"

Pamela swallowed. "Of course, Mr. Woodrue. No problems here."

He crossed the room towards her, holding the plant loosely in one hand. "I'm sure. But, if you can't take care of this, then you really can't garden very well, can you? And you know that I don't keep employees that can't pull their weight. I'd hate to have to hire a new gardener."

"I know, Mr. Woodrue," Pamela mumbled. "I can do this."

"I'm sure. Still, an awful lot of people would stop coming if that plant stopped growing. I'd likely have to take the losses out of your paychecks. We don't want that, do we?" He was far too close now, standing right in front of her. She could almost feel his breath. She looked down at her shoes.

"No, Mr. Woodrue. I'll fix this." Pamela subtly put one hand on the doorknob behind her.

He looked her over for a moment before handing her the flytrap. "That's what I like to hear. Get that thing some fertilizer or something, alright?"

Pamela stared at the floor, clutching Harley Two to her chest. "Of course, Mr. Woodrue. I'll buy it plant food soon as I get the chance."

Pamela swallowed her rage as she watched him walk back upstairs, seemingly satisfied. She'd bought the damn thing plant food already. She'd bought all nine different kinds of plant food the gardening store carried. She'd tried watering it extra. She'd tried watering it less. She'd tried transplanting it into every type of soil they had. Nothing. The thing seemed to have some sort of deathwish. No matter what she did, it didn't look any less like it was ready to die right then and there. It was stubborn in its refusal to grow.

She walked down the stairs to her apartment. The room looked even dingier in the yellow light of her lamp, another rescue from the curb. Maybe once she got her next paycheck she'd buy a good one. She knew she was lying to herself as she set Harley Two down on the table.

Pamela groaned in frustration as she slouched down in the rickety folding chair and glared at the plant. It looked like it was sneering at her with its too-wide mouth. She hated that thing. It didn't deserve its name. If it wasn't the only thing keeping her in business, she'd have thrown it to the curb by now. Sighing, she pulled out a drawer and began fumbling around for a pack of pebbles to aerate the soil. Couldn't hurt to try that again. She was running out of ideas, she knew. She'd have to admit defeat sometime, and they'd be back at square one. Her desk was a mess. Where were those things? She felt something in plastic wrap, her hand immediately closing around it lest it be lost again to the junk drawer. She realized too late that it was a travel kit of sewing needles.

Pamela drew back her hand in pain, clenching it into a fist. She could already tell that there were more than a few cuts. Blood trickled down her wrist, which she immediately wiped away. She opened her hand to survey the damage.

There was a drop of blood beading on the tip of her index finger, several small gashes in her palm, and one particularly nasty slice down the tip of her thumb. She closed the fist again.

She wrapped a tissue around her hand, red soaking through on contact, before looking down in the still open drawer for a bandage. She glanced over at the desktop to check if there was some forgotten box of band-aids she'd left lying around. There was not. She turned her attention back to the junk drawer, maybe there was a first-aid kit under one of these old papers or this pile of pencils or those plastic army men she didn't remember buying. She stopped suddenly. It occurred to her that something about the desktop had changed. Something was different. Slowly, she looked back up at the table.

Harley Two was open.

Pamela immediately straightened her posture and looked at it again, sure she must have been dreaming. It was real. After a week of waiting, the flytrap was ready to live. It took all of her restraint not to cheer out loud. Finally! At last, this could be her shot at getting the damn thing to grow. Carefully, so as not to disturb the plant, she picked up the paper bag of crickets and took out a single insect. She slowly extending a trembling arm to try to place it inside the waiting mouth of the flytrap. It snapped back shut before her hand could even get close.

She groaned in frustration and flung the crickets back down, letting them scatter across the table and floor. It had opened for less than a minute and closed when offered food? Of _course_ it had! The damn plant was actively being difficult.

"God, you're determined to die, aren't you?!" She was yelling at a plant and she didn't care. Fuck this plant. Fuck everything. The thing had a vendetta against survival. It deserved her anger. She smacked her hand against the table, punctuating every word with a small flash of pain. "Why can't you just grow one damn inch?! Is nothing I do good enough? What do you want from me— blood?!" She paused her ranting, breathing heavily. The cuts on her hand, never quite healed, had reopened from the exertion. A thin line of red ran down her finger. She hissed slightly at the pain.

Slowly, the plant opened up again.

Pamela jerked back. Had it... listened to her? No, that's impossible, plants can't hear you, let alone understand you. Everyone knows that. This was clearly just a coincidence. She narrowed her eyes. Can they?

She carefully extended the bleeding finger over Harley Two, letting a drop form. "Is this it? Is this what you want?" Was she expecting some sort of reply? She cringed at herself. God, she really was losing it. But, she'd never had much to lose, had she?

The drop fell into the plant's waiting mouth. There was an instant change in its demeanor. The wilting plant seemed to stand up a bit straighter, expectantly. It looked alive again. And she could see that it wanted more.

Pamela knew that this would end badly. She'd seen plenty of cheesy movies at the drive-in before. The thing would develop a taste for human flesh is she gave it her blood. Anyone with half a brain could predict it. She'd seen movies about giant lizards with more complexity than that. This was insane. The smart thing to do here would be to stop before she got in too far, only giving the plant the bare minimum required to stay alive.

Then she remembered how Harleen had looked at her when she said she wouldn't let her lose her job. Her pleading eyes surfaced in her mind. Pamela hated how predictable she was. She couldn't let her down. Grimacing, she squeezed her fingertip, allowing a little more blood to fall into the waiting maw of the plant. It drank it quickly before opening again. This was just how things were now, she supposed. Do it for Harleen. She bled out a little more into the flytrap. She closed her eyes. Do it for her.

_I've given you sunlight._  
_I've given you rain._  
 _Looks like you're not happy,  
'Less I open a vein.  
I'll give you a few drops_  
_If that'll appease._  
_Now please—oh please—grow for me!_


	5. Some Fun Now

_Poor Seymour pushed a broom,_  
_nothing in his news but gloom and doom_  
_Then he lit a fuse and give him room_  
_He started an explosion, holy cow,_  
_That thing went bang ka-boom_  
_And he's havin' some fun now._

"Pamela! Where's that damn plant?!"

Pamela, who had been vaguely disassociated from reality and trying to recall whether or not she's watered the orchids that morning, was jolted to attention by the sudden yell. She sat up straight in the stool by the register, blinking, and looked up to the source of the noise. "I'm sorry, Mr. Woodrue, could you repeat that?"

Her manager glared down at her from the top of the staircase. "Get that plant up here! Now!"

Pamela stood up too fast, blacking out for a second as she stumbled towards her basement door. She went as quickly as her legs would take her, which wasn't very fast. She leaned against the wall briefly to recover from the sudden lightheadedness.

Woodrue' unsympathetic voice rang out again. "Pamela! I'm not paying you to stand around! Get the Harley Two up here before we have a problem!"

"Yes, Mr. Woodrue!" Pamela called back, pulling the door open with enough force to run over her own foot. She drew in a sharp breath but said nothing. She gritted her teeth. She should be used to pain by now. She descended the stairs slowly, careful to keep her hand tight on the banister despite the half-dozen bandages on her fingers threatening to come undone with the friction. She had learned the hard way that living in a basement was not a good combination with a newfound proneness to fatigue. It felt like ages before she reached the basement apartment. She turned on the new floor lamp, illuminating the cramped room. Her plant sat upon her desk.

Harley Two had nearly quintupled in size in the past two weeks. It stood almost three feet in height, and its leaves and tendrils of vines spread out through the entire flowerpot, spilling out over the edge. Pamela realized with a degree of irritation that she would need to repot it again soon. The desk already sagged in the middle under its weight. She wished that she had some idea regarding what to expect as far as future growth.

She scooped it up, staggering back slightly as she did so. The thing felt like it was pulling her arms off. If it got much bigger, she probably wouldn't be able to leave it downstairs while the shop was closed. She lurched towards the stairs

After some considerable straining on her part, she managed to haul the plant upstairs and put it down on the front counter. She smiled triumphantly up at Woodrue, managing to speak through gasps for breath. "Here it is!"

He walked past her, paying no mind to the rapid growth that the plant had exhibited. "Where's that coworker of yours?"

"Harleen called in sick this morning."

Woodrue looked bitterly at his watch. "Well, the reporter said she wanted to see her too. God knows why."

Pamela looked down meekly, choosing to ignore the insult. "But she said she couldn't come in this morning, Mr. Woodrue."

"That was this morning, this is this evening. Call her. Tell her... tell her anything. Just get her here. Better for her to show up late than not show up at all." He dug around in his coat pocket for some change, which he deposited in Pamela's outstretched hand without looking. She counted two pennies and a dime. "Come back quickly."

Pamela nodded as she hurried to the payphone in the storage room. Glancing quickly behind her to make sure no one was watching, she slipped the extra couple cents she had accidentally been given into her pocket. She stepped into the room. It was tiny, more of a glorified broom closet than anything, but at least it offered some privacy. She half closed the door behind her and dialed Harleen's number.

There was a bit of static when she heard the other side pick up. "H'llo? This is Harley." Her voice sounded completely clear. That struck Pamela as odd. She shook it off. Maybe she'd gotten better after some rest.

"Hi, it's Pam. From work."

"Oh! Hey, Pammy. How's my favorite coworker doin'?" Pamela blushed, relieved that she couldn't see her.

"I'm alright. Woodrue wants you to come in today. There's an interview about my plant."

"Today?"

"Yeah, it's today."

Harleen suddenly adopted a more hoarse tone of voice. "Sorry, Pam. My cold's still pretty bad. Prob'ly shouldn't show up at all today."

Pamela wasn't sure whether she should be insulted that she thought that that would fool her or go along with it and let herself be fooled. "So you're still sick?"

"Oh yeah. Can't breath through my nose at all. Lots of coughing. And vomit. So much vomit."

"Hm."

"Highly contagious too. Real bad."

Pamela heard a sharp tone letting her know that she was running out of time. She decided to just cut to the chase.

"Look, I don't know why you're pretending to be sick, but if you could show up for just a little while, that would be great. Could you do that?"

The call ended before she could answer. Pamela hung up the phone, disappointed. Harleen probably had better things to do than attend her interview. It didn't matter. No one would read it anyways. She closed the closet door behind her and walked back across the shop, lost in her own self-punishing thoughts. Distracted, she paused near the doorway, at the exact moment that the bell heralded the arrival of a woman in a light grey suit, who promptly walked into her.

Pamela started, taking a quick step back. "I am so sorry, ma'am, I wasn't looking. Did I startle you? Are you alright?" As she hurriedly apologized, barely registering her own words, Pamela looked the strange woman over. Her blonde hair was perfectly curled and pinned into place, her suit was immaculately ironed, a camera hung around her neck, and the yellow notepad was clutched in one hand. Pamela realized her identity at approximately the same time she realized that this must not have been a good first impression. "And you must be with the Gotham Gazette. I'm Pamela. Isley. Pamela Isley." She adjusted her glasses, which had been slightly askew. "So, um, you're probably here to come see the plant?"

The woman smiled in a practiced manner. "Of course. Can I put you down as going on the record from this point on?"

Pamela nodded and stepped aside for her. "Sure thing, Miss..."

The woman laughed as she entered the main room. "Oh! I forget myself. Vale. Vicki Vale. So sorry about that. Are you comfortable with photography?"

"Yes, that's fine. Do you want anything? Water? Ice tea? Coffee?"

"No, thank you. Is that the plant there on the counter?" Pamela nodded, and Vicki crossed the room to look at it. She muttered something to herself, writing down illegible notes, before holding the camera up to eye level. "It certainly is strange and interesting."

"Yes, I bought it during that total eclipse of the sun a few weeks back." Pamela waited expectantly for some sort of response, maybe an expression of fascination or curiousity. Still, Vicki said nothing, only glancing up periodically from behind the camera to look at the plant from different angles. Pamela ran a hand nervously through her hair. Was it going well? She wasn't entirely certain.

"Miss Vale! Such a pleasure to finally meet you." Pamela turned around to see Woodrue walking in from the back room, holding a tray of drinks. He set it down on the counter. "Jason Woodrue. Founder and manager. We talked on the phone. Ice tea?"

Vicki scribbled something down, looking at the paper and not at them. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Woodrue. Wasn't there supposed to be a third employee?"

Woodrue shrugged nonchalantly. "Miss Quinzel. Excellent with customers, dreadful with timekeeping. I apologize for that."

Vicki took a glass from the tray. "No need for apologies. It's just a puff piece on local businesses. Now, Miss Isley, am I correct in saying that this," she gestured with the pen at the flytrap on the counter, "is yours?"

Woodrue began to speak. "Well, I wouldn't say it's all–"

"Yes. It's mine." Pamela interrupted. She was shocked by her own boldness, but it seemed like it would be worse to revert to meekness now. She kept going. "I'm the one you should be asking about it."

Vicki kept writing, but now looked up at Pamela with a look of vague interest. "How fascinating. What do you call it again?"

"The Harley Two. I believe it to be a previously undiscovered species. None of my books on botany say a thing about it."

"How exactly do you care for it?"

Pamela pulled her sleeves over her bandaged hands, hoping her brief look of panic wasn't too noticeable. "It's, um, a secret. I can't give it out. Not to anyone. We don't want anyone stealing it."

Vicki wrote down something on the paper. "Do you have any ideas about what it might become?"

Pamela glanced at her shoes. "I theorize it may be a close relative to a butterwort, or perhaps a Venus flytrap, so one could look at those for hints. However, it's still a mystery to me."

Vicki nodded. "That's good, very good thinking. Now, could I ask you some questions about yourself?"

Pamela was taken aback. She hadn't prepared for this. "About me?"

Woodrue, who had been sitting in the stool behind the counter, stood up. "Miss Vale, I'm sure you don't need to do that. Wouldn't you rather hear about the shop? We've got a lovely new shipment of lilacs in–"

"No. My readership generally expects a bit of human interest in a piece like this. I shouldn't be asking anything too invasive, of course, just a little about you as a person. Give my readers a hint of who Pamela Isley really is."

Woodrue interjected again. "Now, I really don't think this is entirely n–"

The reporter put down her notepad and looked him in the eye. "Mr. Woodrue. I am a reporter. I know how to conduct an interview. Would it be easier for you if you left the room?"

Woodrue looked like he was about to make some remark to her, before thinking better of it and closing his mouth. He picked up a tea with more aggression than entirely necessary and took it with him as he headed upstairs.

Vicki flipped over the page of her notepad. "Now, where were we?"

"Questions about me."

"Right. So, how long have you worked here?"

Pamela shrugged. "About eleven or so years, I think. Since I was sixteen."

Vicki looked mildly taken aback. "That long?"

"I really like plants. Gardening's always been soothing to me, having a routine, being able to see improvement... it's really very relaxing. I recommend it."

"Have you ever considered opening your own shop? After all, you do seem to be a very talented woman. What could possibly be keeping you here?"

Harleen. "Money."

"Of course." Vicki wrote down something quickly, but stopped suddenly. She looked up with a somewhat apologetic expression. "I'm sorry, but do you have a pen I could borrow? Mine just ran out of ink."

Pamela nodded, and walked around the counter. "Just a second, I think there's one in the drawer." She rummaged around for a moment before presenting her with one.

Vicki took it and then frowned. "What happened to your hand?"

Pamela quickly covered her hands with the sleeves again. "Nothing, I was just taking off the thorns from some roses. It's fine."

Vicki looked unconvinced, but before any more uncomfortable questions could arise, the sound of the bell filled the air. The pair turned, almost in synchronization, to see Harleen standing in the doorway.

She smiled awkwardly. "How's the interview going?"

Vicki looked her up and down, writing something down quickly. "And you are..."

Harleen walked across the room as she spoke. "Harleen Quinzel. People call me Harley One." She paused, both her speech and her movement. "That sounded better in my head. No one actually says that. I made it up." She reached Vicki and Pamela and leaned against the counter. "You're with the Gazette, yeah?"

Vicki nodded and extended a hand. "Vicki Vale. Local news reporter."

Harleen wavered before reaching out with her right hand. Her sweater sleeve was carefully held over her palm by her thumb. "Nice t'meet ya."

Vicki hovered the pen an inch or so over the paper. "Do you mind going on the record?"

Harleen shook her head. "Nah, it's alright by me. Ask away."

Vicki began writing before even asking a question. "So, how long have you worked here?"

"Couple years, but I'm just the checkout girl. Pammy does most of the work around here." She adjusted the white kerchief around her neck. "She's the one ya should interview."

"I interviewed her before you got here. Why were you late?."

Harleen laughed nervously. "Right. Sorry bout that. I wasn't feeling well."

"You look fine to me."

Harleen hesitated before slowly rolling up the sleeve of her loose fitting sweater. Pamela gasped when she saw the cast on her lower arm.

Harleen launched into an explanation before anyone could ask about it. "It's not that bad. Just a fracture. Doctor said I'd be fine in a coupla months."

Pamela took a deep breath. "Harleen, did he–"

"No! He didn't lay a hand on me, really. I fell down some stairs. I promise, it's nothing. It's nothing."

Pamela suddenly remembered that the reporter was still there. She turned quickly to look at her. "Did you write down any of that?!" She didn't give Vicki a chance to respond, walking with determination to the reporter's side of the counter. "Did you write down any of that?!"

Vicki closed her notepad. "As a journalist, I have no intention of publishing material irrelevant to the subject." she said softly and delicately, careful not to offend.

Harleen looked at Pamela in a way she never had before. Pamela recognized that expression. It was the one she'd give a customer who didn't understand the meaning of a CLOSED sign, or Woodrue when he demanded that an arrangement be completed in an absurdly small timeframe, or a man on the street who told her to smile. It was a look that spoke more than words could ever hope to, but that didn't stop them from trying. "Stay out of my business, Pamela. I don't need your help."

Pamela took a step back. "I didn't mean–"

"It doesn't matter. Now," Harleen looked at Vicki. "Do you have any more questions?"

She shook her head, looking very much like she wanted to leave. "No more questions. If I could just get one picture of you both with the plant?"

"Sure thing," Harleen responded cheerfully, posing beside her namesake. Pamela stood on the other side and forced her face to assume a smile for the picture. She ignored the slight sting of tears threatening to well up in her eyes.

"Perfect. Keep an eye out in the papers this week." Vicki let the camera fall back to its prior position. "That plant should make front page of the lifestyle section. Thank you for your time."

Pamela nodded. "Of course," she mumbled.

Vicki walked out, accompanied only by the sound of her heels on the tile, leaving the two women alone in the store. Neither of them spoke for what felt like the longest time. They didn't look at each other. Pamela became aware of the ticking of the clock again. She hadn't noticed it as much lately. Had it gotten louder? She tried to focus on the ticking and not on the person standing on the other end of the counter.

Harleen cleared her throat, breaking the tension, and stepped back from the counter. Her voice carried a slight edge to it. "I will see you tomorrow."

Pamela reached out towards her. There were so many things she wanted to say. _I'm sorry. I shouldn't have intruded. I didn't mean to._ "Harleen, wait–"

"I will see you tomorrow," she repeated, bitingly, turning away. "Goodbye, Pamela."

Pamela watched her leave, walking bitterly towards the exit. As the door closed behind her, the bell sounding almost mocking, she allowed the tears she'd been holding back to fall.

_He's havin' some fun now._  
_Oh boy, oh boy_  
_Yes, he's havin' some fun now_  
_Oh_ _boy_  
 _Ain't he_ _havin' some fun now!_


End file.
